Day 1: The Trial of the Century
Coffee is life, love, and happiness. Actually, it's just alertness, and on a
day that I'll be covering the trial of the century along with a horde of
additional reporters, I need to be sharp. That need is exactly why I've
dressed in my sharpest navy-blue suit dress and paired it with knee-high
boots before enjoying a fall walk to the coffee shop three blocks from my
New York City loft. Only two blocks from the courthouse, it's bustling with
people, but the white mocha is so worth the line, and I've allowed myself
ample time to caffeinate. In fact, I have a full two hours before I have to be
inside the courtroom, and I plan to sit at a corner table and draft the
beginning of my daily segment Cat Does Crime before heading to the
courthouse.
I step into a line ten deep that slowly moves, and google the name of the
defendant, looking for any hot new tidbit that might not have been live
before bed last night. I tab through several articles, and I've made it to a
spot near the front of the line when some odd blog linked to the defendant's
name called "Mr. Hotness Gets Illegally Hot" pops up in my search.
Considering the defendant is a good-looking billionaire accused of killing
his pregnant mistress, I buy into the headline and click. The line moves up
one spot, and I move with it and then start reading:
I need help. I've done something bad. So very bad. I was told he would
take care of me. Protect me. That was three months ago. I remember that
day like it was yesterday. But now, it's today, a world behind me and in front
of us. I enter his office and shut the door. We stare at each other, the air
thickening, crackling. And then it happens. That thing that always happens
between us. One minute I'm across the room, and the next I'm sitting in his
chair, behind his desk, with him on his knees in front of me. Those blue eyes
of his are smoldering hot. His hands settle on my legs just under my skirt, and I want to run my hands through his thick, dark hair, but I know better. I
don't touch him until he tells me I can touch him.
I grip the arms of the chair, and his hands start a slow slide upward…
"Next!"
I blink out of that hot little number of a read and pant out a breath, feeling
really dirty and gross, and with good reason. I'm hot and bothered over
what I think is a fantasy piece about a man who is accused of pushing his
pregnant girlfriend down the stairs and killing her. Correction, his pregnant
mistress. Only the baby wasn't really his, and he says he wasn't her lover,
and he was still charged over fingerprints on a doorknob.
"Cat!"
I jolt at my name as Jeffrey, who works the register as regularly as I visit,
shouts at me from behind the counter. I take a step forward, only to have a
man in a dark gray suit step in front of me. Frowning, I instinctively move
forward and touch his arm. "Excuse me." He doesn't respond, and I am
certain he's aware I'm now standing right next to him. "Excuse me," I
repeat.
He doesn't turn around, and now I'm irritated. I tug on the sleeve of what
I am certain is his ridiculously expensive jacket and achieve my intended
goal: He rotates to look at me, the look of controlled irritation etched in his
ridiculously handsome face telling me I've achieved my goal. He now feels
what I feel, and as a bonus: He now knows that despite my being barely
five foot two, blonde, and female, I will not be ignored. "I was next," I say.
"I'm in too much of a rush to wait for you to finish playing games on
your phone."
"Games? Are you serious?" I open my mouth to say more and snap it
shut, holding up a hand to stop him from doing or saying something that
might land me in a courtroom today for the wrong reason. "Wait your turn,
like the gentleman you should be."
His eyes, which I now know to be a wicked crystal blue, narrow ever so
slightly before he turns to the counter. "A venti double espresso and
whatever she's having." Mr. Arrogant Asshole looks at me. "What do you
want? I'll buy your drink."
"Is that an apology?"
"It's a concession made in the interest of time. Not an apology. You were
the one on your phone playing—"
"I was not playing games. I was working, while you were plotting the
best way to push around the woman who was ahead of you."
"That's the best you've got? I'm pushing around women?"
"No, you're not pushing around women today," I say. "You tried and
failed. I can buy my own coffee." I face the counter. "My usual."
"Already wrote up your cup," Jeffrey says. "It should be ready any
minute."
"Thank you," I say, and while I should just move along, I find myself
turning to Mr. Arrogant Asshole because apparently, I can't help myself.
"I'll leave you with a helpful tip," I say, "since you've been so exceedingly
helpful to me today. The phrases 'thank you' and 'I'm sorry' are not only
Manners 101, but failure to use them will either keep a man single, or make
a man single." And on that note, I move on down the bar, which has a
cluster of people waiting on drinks, but thankfully, I spot the corner table I
favor opening up. Hurrying that way, I wait for the woman who is leaving
to clear her space, and then murmur the "thank you" that Mr. Arrogant
Asshole back at the counter doesn't understand before claiming her seat and
placing my bag on the table. Settling into my seat, I have no idea why, but
my gaze lifts and seeks out Mr. Arrogant Asshole, who now stands at the
counter, talking on his cellphone and oozing that kind of rich, powerful
presence that sucks up all the air in the room and makes every woman
around look at him. Me included, apparently, which irritates me. He irritates
me, and the only way you deal with a man like him is naked for one night,
which you end with a pretty little orgasmic goodbye, and that is all.
Anything else is a mistake, which I know because I've been there, done
that.
Once.
Never again.
It's in that moment, with that thought, that Mr. Arrogant Asshole decides
to turn around and somehow find the exact spot where I'm sitting, those
piercing blue eyes locked on me. And now he's watching me watching him,
which means I'm busted and probably appear more interested in him than I
want to appear. I cut my stare and pull out my MacBook, keying it to life,
and just when it's connected, I hear, "Order for Cat!"
At the sound of my name, I eye one of the regulars, a twenty-something
encroaching on thirty, who got fired from his job and started some
consulting business. "Kevin," I say, and when he doesn't look up, I raise my
voice. "Kevin!"
His head jerks up. "Cat," he says, blinking me into view.
I point to my table and the coffee bar. He nods. I push to my feet and, not
about to cower over Mr. Arrogant Asshole, who is now standing at the bar
with his back to me, I charge forward. I'm just about to step to his side and
grab my drink when he faces me, holding two drinks, one of which he
offers to me. "Your drink," he says.
I purse my lips, refusing to be charmed. "Thank you." I pause for effect
and add, "But you're still an asshole."
His lips, which I notice when I shouldn't, because he really is an
arrogant asshole, curve. "You have such good manners," he comments.
"My mother taught me right. Manners and honesty."
"I won't argue the accuracy of your statement, considering the fact that I
was an asshole."
"Well, good," I say, curious about this turn of events. "We agree on
something."
His eyes light with amusement. "I'd apologize, but then this would be
over."
I frown. "What does that mean?"
"Meet me here in the morning and we'll negotiate the terms of my
apology." He steps around me, and I whirl around to face his back.
"You're an attorney, aren't you?" I say, because I know the lingo, the
style, everything about this man. And I am, in fact, a Harvard graduate
attorney myself, as are two of my three brothers and my father. Them by
choice, me by pressure that I stopped caving into two years ago next week.
He stops walking and rotates to face me now. "Yes, Cat. I am. Which
means that you can handle Manners 101 and I'll handle Negotiation 101."
He smiles—and it's one hell of a smile—before he turns and walks away.
I watch him disappear in the crowd, knowing I have two options: Forget
him or show back up. This is crazy. Men like that one are trouble, and I
don't like trouble, so why the heck am I staring after Mr. Arrogant Asshole?
I'm not meeting him. End of story.
Shaking off any other thought, I walk back to my table and glance at the
computer screen, where I've typed "Mr. Hotness," and decide that hot little
blog post is half the reason that Mr. Arrogant Asshole was able to get to me.
I'm not meeting him. Of course, if I did, I'd do so with the understanding
that trouble can be managed, and in this case, in his case, that would be
with a dirty, rich one night stand.
Or by simply not meeting him again, but this is my coffee shop and I
won't be run out of it.
An hour later, I've written my intro for today's courtroom activity,
detailing what I know of the crime in question and the accused killer
himself, before heading to the courthouse. I arrive forty-five minutes before
the start of the trial, and it's a good thing I do. The outside of the courthouse
is crowded with picketers and press. Inside the courtroom, cameras and
people have hoarded ninety-nine percent of the space. I squeeze into the
back row and remove my brand-new leather-bound notebook, open to the
first page, where I write: Murder: Guilty or Innocent? I follow with random
questions I hope to answer today and during the trial, as I did in the two
major trials I sat in witness to prior to this one.
I've just finished my list when the courtroom activity begins. The jury
enters. The defendant and his counsel enter, but the stupid cameras block
my view. The judge enters next, and we all stand, which means I have an
even worse view. Finally, we all take our seats and the lead counsels for
both sides approach the bench. They are only there for a minute at most
before they turn back to the courtroom. It's then, as Reese Summer, lead
counsel for the defense, takes center stage for opening statements that my
lips part in shock, and with good reason. Reese Summer is Mr. Arrogant
Asshole. I sit there, staring at him, dumbfounded for the first five minutes
of his opening before I even remember that I need to take notes. I start
writing, studying him as he walks, talks, and presents not just his case, but
himself, to the jury, audience, and cameras.
"Nelson Ward met Jennifer Wright when she was scared of her boyfriend
and he didn't look away like most people would. He looked at her. He saw
her instead of seeing through her or past her. He told his wife about her.
And together he and his wife, helped her seek shelter and a job. Nelson did
not have an affair with Jennifer Wright. The DNA has proven that the child
Jennifer Wright was carrying was not his, but rather her boyfriend's, who
was abusing her. The prosecution wanted to make the public happy and they
needed a victim to convict. And that's what my client is: A victim. The
prosecution will present fingerprints on the doorknob of Ms. Wright's house
as evidence. That was the bombshell that landed Nelson Ward in this
courtroom. My fingerprints are all over this courtroom. Did I commit a
crime here? No. I did not. Has a crime been committed here? Yes. In fact,
there have been three murders on this very property. According to the
prosecution's handling of this case, you all must now need lawyers. Why?
Because that is the only evidence they have against my client, fingerprints
on a door. I don't know about you, folks, but I'm terrified at the idea that
we can be convicted of a crime off nothing but our fingerprints on a door.
Not on a weapon. On a doorknob used over and over by many people."
He continues, and there are quips, and murmured laughter, and intense
scowls. He takes everyone on an emotional journey. When he's done, I sit
back to assess his skill, and I judge him as a man that can seduce a
courtroom as easily as he seduced me.
He's trouble.
Big trouble.
And it's now my job to make him my obsession for the remainder of this
trial. Which means a dirty, rich (naked) one night stand can't happen until
there can be that pretty little orgasmic goodbye. Anything else would be a
mistake I've already made. Once. Never again.